


A Part to Play

by ihearthings_ii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, WTF i wrote het, What-If, au-ish, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihearthings_ii/pseuds/ihearthings_ii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly off-center of the BBC canon, Moriarty/Moran, not everything is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Part to Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Adelate for beta and advice, and for listening to this idea in the middle of the night.

Belly down, legs a little akimbo, and there’s a slight breeze in the hair by her temples - not enough to mess with the shot, but she’s aware, alert.

It’s just for practice, really, but it’s also a test. Everything is a test, and she never wants to disappoint him. Not just because the consequences would be uncomfortable as fuck but she just wants to be good, for him.

She scans the crowd through the scope. Who to pick, who to pick --- someone completely random, somone to make the incompetent pricks at the Yard run in circles around themselves, while she and the Boss take care of the real business - but it still has to be someone interesting. Someone not --- boring.

There.

She knows him. Small fish, who thinks he’s the shit, messing with things far above his paygrade and, while he’s not anywhere near their game, removing him altogether is no skin off her back.

A car pulls up and he walks towards it - quick calculations and she holds her breath, takes aim, and squeezes, squeezes --- a mile away, the man’s head explodes and she inhales slowly, slowly.

The white noise static of her phone finally registers, and she starts at the whiplash sound of an expensive zipper opening, the rustle of rich fabric and Jim’s heavy breathing.

“Good girl,” he says, “now come home to daddy.” 

She packs her rifle, quickly, and makes her way down to the street, ducks her head and becomes ordinary, invisible.

*

Jim is sprawled indecently on the sofa, legs splayed wide open and he’s fisting his dick roughly, head lolled over the back of the couch, eyes closed. His suit is a little rumpled, the tie askew, and he’s a little damp around the hairline, and she loves him like this, when he’s a little blurred and not completely in control.

“Come here, Sebastienne,” he sing-songs, because random kills and competence are his two biggest turn-ons, and she has never been able to turn down a praise fuck.

She takes her coat off, hangs it on the hook, puts the case away. Jim is making little moans and grunts on the sofa, but he hates messes and she is always meticulous.

She undresses, folds her clothes and puts it away and then she walks over, straddles him, a knee on either side of him and she works her hips down, slowly, slowly, teasing them both, until she sinks all the way down on him, a little too fast, a little too rough, and she sinks her teeth into the flesh of his upper arm.

The sofa makes little screechy sounds against the hardwood floor, Jim’s manicured nails rake down her back, and he’s thrusting, fucking her in time with the metronome above the fireplace.

His fingers clench rhythmically around her hips as he comes, and she wonders what symphony is playing in his head.

*

Jim showers, singing _I will survive_ at the top of his lungs, and inserting his own lyrics, _but now I’m saving all my loving for someone as smart as me_ , and she dresses in Molly’s clothes, Molly’s skin, Molly’s plebian feelings. She shakes her hair out of the tight bun and restyles it, loose and flipped over one shoulder, perfect for nervous, infatuated hands to play with.

She hates Molly, a little bit, and wonders what exactly Jim needs her to get from Sherlock, for this to be over, for Molly to die as swiftly as that prick from earlier.

She looks in the mirror and smirks at herself in a stranger’s skin.

“I am Molly’s crippling insecurity,” she says and laughs, high-pitched and maybe just a little unhinged.

Jim emerges from the shower, naked and wild-eyed, and rummages through the drawer that holds the clothes of flats’s former owner.

He jumps up, and triumphantly holds a cheap gray t-shirt and a pair of lime-green pants over his head like a hard-won trophy.

He turns and smiles at her, sharp teeth, dark eyes and his shoulders rolling.

“You and I,” he says, gleefully, “are going to play a little game.”

*


End file.
